


The Founder of the Feast

by lotus0kid



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotus0kid/pseuds/lotus0kid
Summary: Belle and Rumpelstiltskin attend the midwinter festival in the town near the Dark Castle.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 18
Kudos: 36





	The Founder of the Feast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanofdarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofdarkness/gifts).

> For the 2018 Rumbelle Secret Santa, using 0ceanofdarkness' prompt "Dark Castle fluff, library, kisses", with a sub-prompt of "lights, cookies, pine scent, finding the perfect gift". Hope you like it! Also, let’s pretend the events of “Skin Deep” happened between fall and winter instead of between winter and spring, okay? Okay!

Excitement quickens Belle’s pace along the road back to the Dark Castle. She takes deep breaths of bright and wonderfully pine-scented air and smiles all the wider as a fresh fall of snow swirls around her. The stony keep ahead loses some of its menace when iced in white like a giant gingerbread house, much to the dismay of its owner. Belle’s smile gains a hint of mischief as she hurries on.

She can barely stand the delay of taking off her cloak and gloves before marching into the great hall with the requested basket of straw swinging from her arm.

Rumpelstiltskin remains at the wheel where she left him. He shoots a scowl at her approach. “Ah, at last you’ve returned. I was beginning to think you’d succumbed to the elements and I’d have to deal for a new caretaker.”

Belle breezes past his sour quip. “I could’ve spent hours longer, it’s beautiful outside! And can you even guess what I saw in town?”

“As long as it was high-quality straw, which you proceeded to purchase and bring back, I don’t particularly care.”

Hiding a frown at his dismissal, Belle presses on, “The people were preparing for the midwinter festival! It looks to be a wonderful event. Tonight there will be an outdoor market, with music, and dancing, and all sorts of food and drink... Is there anything I’m forgetting? Does Fezziwig have any special traditions?”

“How should I know?”

Belle rolls her eyes. “Um, because you live here?”

The wheel pauses as Rumpelstiltskin fixes a bleak look on her. “I live in the Dark Castle. What happens down in the valley is none of my concern.”

“Well, I’m not talking about something that should _concern_ you. I’m talking about attending the midwinter festival. You know, for fun?”

Rumpelstiltskin heaves a breath, and returns to his spinning as he grumbles, “I don’t see the fun in watching a gaggle of brief mortals rally against the midwinter darkness. As if lighting some candles and warbling a few songs will keep the cold out of their bones.”

“There are songs? Can you sing them for me?”

One raised brow informs her of how mad he thinks she is.

Belle lets out her own sigh. “When was the last time you visited Fezziwig?”

“Never.”

Her mouth falls open as she blinks owlishly at him. “Are you serious? The only human settlement in miles and miles of forest and mountains and you’ve never set foot in it?”

“The town leaders came once, not long after I arrived a generation or two ago. Nervous lot. I explained if there was anything I needed from the village, it would be paid for in gold. That seemed to ease their minds. Otherwise, I’ve kept away. Besides, it’s not as if I was welcome.”

Belle recoils slightly as she registers the sorrow in Rumpelstiltskin’s voice he probably thinks is completely hidden. “Right, I see. And you’ve never wondered who they are, what their lives are like, how they celebrate the holidays?”

“As previously stated, as long as I can get what I want from them, I don’t care about some lackwit peasants scratching a miserable existence from the dirt and waiting to die in their stick and mud huts.”

Belle purses her lips and sets her hands on her hips. “All right, that’s enough. You and I are going to the midwinter festival tonight. And if you need an excuse, uh…” She taps her foot in thought, “Ah! We can make certain they aren’t plotting against you. They’ve surely noticed the Evil Queen traveling to and from the Dark Castle in recent months. That could make some ‘lackwit peasants’ a little nervous, don’t you think? Perhaps nervous enough to want to put a stop to whatever is going on up here.”

The wheel slows to a halt. “They wouldn’t dare.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met them,” Belle retorts.

A low raspy growl floats up from behind the wheel before Rumpelstiltskin kicks back his stool and stands. He jabs a finger at Belle and snarls, “I’m not walking through the snow for this nonsense.”

She simply smiles. “Of course not, dearie.”

She turns on a heel and trots away before he can decide the evening would be better spent turning her into an entire genus of frogs.

Belle prefers not to rely on the castle’s magic for anything she can do herself, but today she makes use of it to craft just the right look to attend Fezziwig’s midwinter celebration. Wool is a must, as the temperature has fallen with the setting sun. She chooses dark green for her dress and leggings, along with a ruby-red cloak lined with fur and high boots in soft brown leather.

Once dressed, she looks for a mirror before remembering there isn’t one. She won’t be able to practice her smile, make sure the lurking worry doesn’t show. It’s been growing ever since she and Rumpelstiltskin had that… surprising moment where she got under his layers and learned about his lost son, at least that such a person existed. But then he sent her for straw, and by the time she returned, a black carriage with ostentatious plumes was pulling away from the Dark Castle gates. Rumpelstiltskin stayed locked in his tower laboratory for two full days afterward, and when he finally emerged he seemed to have forgotten their deal, such as it was, for him to share his story with Belle. It was more than disappointment that stung her heart then.

If the people of Fezziwig haven’t noticed the Evil Queen’s increased presence, Belle is painfully aware. Since that first visit Her Majesty has returned three times to sequester herself with Rumpelstiltskin in his tower laboratory for hours at a time. After she leaves, darkness hangs on him with the remnants of her syrupy perfume. He goes to his wheel, and Belle can’t reach him. They are planning something. She doesn’t know what, but it makes her feel small and scared.

She won’t plot against Rumpelstiltskin. She wouldn’t know where to start. But she can’t help thinking he ought to be reminded that the world still exists outside of his and Regina’s schemes. There are real people out there whose lives aren’t wrapped up in dark magic and brutal control. A midwinter festival feels like the perfect opportunity.

When Belle leaves her tower she finds Rumpelstiltskin waiting by the castle’s main doors. He extends a hand which Belle takes with a beam and curtsey.

“Are you certain you don’t want to walk to town?” she asks, “The forest is so lovely in the snow. And the smell is-”

A purple cloud of magic swirls around them and just as quickly dissipates.

“- so wonderful. AUGH!” Belle jerks back as she discovers a crooked old crone clasping her hand instead of Rumpelstiltskin.

The crone grins horribly, and at least that’s familiar. “You didn’t think I’d walk in there without a suitable disguise, did you? We are meant to be rooting out conspirators.”

“R-right, yes,” she replies, forcing the quaver from her voice. She casts her free hand to the area behind Rumpelstiltskin, “Well, what do you think of the stick and mud huts?”

He turns, and Belle delights in his choked-off cry of surprise at what he sees. They’ve arrived on the road just outside of town. Dark wood and stone buildings, some as high as three stories, rise up among the pines. A lit candle perches on every windowsill in sight, and the shadows and silhouettes of people move in the warmly glowing interiors. Boughs of pine and holly decorate doorways and stoops. Lanterns light the road that leads deeper into town.

Belle tucks the crone’s withered hand into the crook of her elbow and chirps, “Come, Grandmother, let’s go to the festival!”

Rumpelstiltskin growls at her, but allows himself to be towed along as a fresh fall of snowflakes whispers around them. As they go they are joined by people stepping out of well-appointed homes carrying covered trays that trail steam and delicious aromas of spiced baked goods and seasoned roast meats. Belle returns every cheerful greeting while Rumpelstiltskin musters curt nods.

As homes give way to shops, Belle remarks, “Normally I just stop at a farmhouse to buy your straw, but luckily today I came all the way here to see if the bookshop had anything new.”

“An entire tower library and you’re still not satisfied?” Rumpelstiltskin grumbles.

Belle shrugs. “All those books are fine, but new is _new_. In any case, when I arrived they were closed, busy with festival preparations. Let’s stop in now, shall we?”

He grunts but makes no protest as they carry on. They reach the town square, a wide paved space encircled by tables piled high with items for sale, and one table rapidly filling with food and drink provided by the arriving villagers. The center of the square is left empty, but will surely only remain so until the band of musicians tuning up in a corner are ready to play. The thoroughly impossible image of Rumpelstiltskin leading Belle in a dance flashes through her head- she shakes it off and puts on a little more speed toward a certain shop.

Golden light spills out from the large display window, shining around a few dozen books with green covers that have been arranged in a conical shape mimicking the surrounding pines. While Belle is marveling at it, a cheery voice cries, “So you made it back after all!”

Belle turns a grin on the portly older man standing at the shop entrance. “Nothing would keep me away, Master Wilkins. And in fact, I’ve brought company. When I returned to the Dark Castle, I discovered my own dear grandmother had come to visit. Say hello, Grandmother.”

The crone’s nails dig into her arm, but she smiles through the sting as Rumpelstiltskin grinds out, “A pleasure, I’m sure, Master Wilkins.”

The bookseller bows neatly. “The pleasure is mine, mistress. And now you both must come in for some mulled wine before the festivities begin. Come, come, I’ll hear no argument.”

They are herded into the shop and swiftly presented with small glasses of fragrant wine by Wilkins’s wife Martha, along with a selection of delicately iced cookies to dip in it. They pass easy conversation- well, Belle, Wilkins, and Martha do. Rumpelstiltskin stays silent, even while Belle invents quite a colorful backstory for her alleged grandmother. She was about to mention how her sweet granny taught Don Juan everything he knows when the sound of sleigh bells rings from outside.

Martha and Wilkins gasp in excitement, and Belle and Rumpelstiltskin find themselves herded back out of the shop and into the square, which has just about filled with smiling people, all with their gazes directed at a man who has walked into the center of the throng. He wears a top hat and carries a chair, which he smartly plants on the ground and steps onto.

Once he’s straightened his lapels, he announces, “Good evening, fellow villagers and honored guests, to Fezziwig’s midwinter celebration!”

A cheer flies up from the crowd, which Belle joins while Rumpelstiltskin peers around skeptically.

“It is my delight as Fezziwig’s governor to welcome you all. This is the night we fill with lively music, excellent food and drink, and, best of all, the company of our loved ones. I bid you hold close the memories made this night so that their glow will warm all the remaining bitter days of winter. Will you do this for me?”

The crowd shouts its agreement while Rumpelstiltskin snorts and rolls his eyes.

A young woman sails by the chair and passes a glass of what Belle assumes is mulled wine to the governor. “Ah, many thanks, my dear,” he says, and raises the glass, “Now, we shall have our traditional toast. To the founder of the feast. All health and happiness to Rumpelstiltskin!”

The audience’s responding toast is cut by the sorcerer himself letting out a full-throated squawk that makes Belle fumble her glass and draws stares from everyone around them.

An ordinary man might have quailed under the townsfolk’s scrutiny, Belle would certainly like to, but Rumpelstiltskin bristles and scoffs as viciously as any disapproving matron, “The founder of the feast? The Dark One? That’s no feast _I’d_ eat.”

However, the governor simply smiles, “I see you are new to Fezziwig, wise mother. But I wonder perhaps if you have noticed our fine buildings, our clean and quiet streets, our large and happy population?”

Rumpelstiltskin deigns to cast a glare at his surroundings. “What of it?”

“All these blessings became possible when the so-called ‘Dark One’ took residence in the castle. If you all will permit me a brief history lesson, before that fine day Fezziwig was the sorry subject of a noble family whose every generation was more feckless than the last. When the final wastrel dealt away his ownership of the land, indeed there was some trepidation amongst our grandparents. But time passed. Their fears were not realized. And indeed, as knowledge spread of Rumpelstiltskin’s presence in the region, the local banditry abandoned our roads. Today I’d wager ten spools of gold you can’t find so much as a pickpocket in Fezziwig. And for all this he asks nothing, nothing we are not able to part with, and for which we are handsomely paid. And so we toast to his health, and wish him well, with all the gratitude in our hearts.”

“Hear, hear!” someone calls, and glasses are raised and toasts drunk. Belle does so as well when she can break free from her shock. She knew the people of Fezziwig were content living in the shadow of the Dark Castle, but she had no idea they held Rumpelstiltskin in such high regard.

Meanwhile, the perhaps less than reviled Dark One takes a sip of wine while muttering into his glass, “Mad fools, all of them…”

Belle finishes her wine and hands the glass back to Wilkins before stepping close to Rumpelstiltskin’s side. “Well, Grandmother, have you seen enough? Would you like to retire?”

Still with his nose stuck in his glass, Rumpelstiltskin mutters, “No. Not… not yet.”

Belle allows herself a private grin as she loops her arm with his, waves goodbye to Wilkins and Martha, and begins a slow stroll with Rumpelstiltskin through the square. They peruse tables where craftsmen sell charming carved and clockwork toys, weavers show off woolen scarves, hats, and mittens, and bakers display mouthwatering pies and cakes. Belle notes the bits of gold thread passed from hand to hand- three inches for this, a half-inch for that, all pulled from bracelets wrapped around each wrist.

She and Rumpelstiltskin wander to the table now straining under the weight of donated dishes. They sample steamed dumplings while watching couples swirl around the square to the tune of the musicians’ song. Belle sways along too, and finds her eyes wandering to Rumpelstiltskin as she wonders again if a dance is completely out of the question. However, she finds the crone’s face neither smiling nor sneering. A sorrowful pall hangs over him as he gazes around at the festivities.

“Is something wrong?” she softly inquires.

He gives his head a tiny wag. “No, no, indeed not. Everything is utterly delightful. Look at all this hearty merriment. Surely everyone’s been invited. No one has been left out. There is no outcast. No one suffering in silence in the dark.” He draws in and releases a breath, and continues almost too quietly to hear, “No boy who puts on a brave face because he knows his father also wishes they could celebrate with the other villagers, that he wishes things were different, but they’re not. There is only the hard winter ahead and the hope of enough food to make it through and no one- _no one_ is coming to help.”

He speaks of his lost son, hinting at a story so grim Belle feels nearly perverse for her raging curiosity. She stomps down on it and instead asks, “Can I get you some more wine?”

Rumpelstiltskin shrugs. “Why not? It’s a party, after all.”

She leaves him watching the dancers, and makes her way near where a pair matrons stand arm-in-arm by the feast table. As she pours fresh glasses she listens to their murmuring.

“… so he’s not come. Oh I do wish he had. It chills my bones to think of Master Cratchit way out in that old cottage alone. Tim’s not written in weeks, and of course he barely stayed the length of his mother’s funeral before he was off again.”

“The sea’s his home now, I suppose.”

“I suppose. But what’s a few coins sent to his father every month compared to the boy himself coming for midwinter? He must know how the man works, year in and year out to keep Fezziwig in firewood. No other woodcutter is so dedicated. But, sweetheart, I do worry so. One accident or illness and he’ll be lost to us, with no one the wiser until market day, gods forbid.”

“Someone will pop by tonight, surely.”

“Certainly we would if we weren’t hosting my parents.

The other matron pats her wife’s hand. “Come market day, he’ll be here. We’ll wish him well and save a cinnamon bun with a nice holly sprig just for him.”

“That’ll have to do,” the first matron says with a sigh that’s closer to a whimper. The worry on the two women’s faces melts into warm smiles and greetings as Belle walks past with her filled glasses and busily ticking mind.

Returning to Rumpelstiltskin’s side, she hands him a glass and stands watching the dancers for a moment. Eventually she remarks, “I think you’re right, that everyone was invited. However, I’ve heard there’s one person who hasn’t come. A man in a cottage out in the woods, who might feel rather lonely tonight. Do you think he might welcome a pair of strangers in for a cup of good cheer?”

Rumpelstiltskin is silent long enough for Belle to consider repeating herself before he says, “That may not be a terrible idea…” He coughs and casts a narrow-eyed scowl at her, “If anyone is plotting, it’ll likely be this malcontent.”

Belle gives him a very serious nod. Searching her memory, she recalls stopping once at what looked like a woodcutter’s cottage when out to fetch straw. No one answered the door when she knocked and so she moved on. It can be assumed more than one woodcutter delivers to Fezziwig, but Belle has a hunch this is where they’ll find Master Cratchit.

They exit the festival, and Rumpelstiltskin allows her to lead him along the road back in the direction of the Dark Castle. If her memory is correct, the cottage was nearly closer to their home than town. Quite a distance for an older man to travel, even for the midwinter celebration. Not to mention the frigid darkness tightening its grip the further they travel away from the lights and music. By the time the cottage with a small stable in back comes into view, Belle doesn’t have to feign her pathetic shivering as she knocks on the door.

Thankfully it doesn’t take too long to hear approaching footsteps inside. The door swings open to reveal a man slightly hunched under the bulk of his burly shoulders, peering at Belle from under bushy white eyebrows. “Uh, yes?”

“Good evening, sir,” Belle says with a smile that suffers somewhat from chattering teeth, “My grandmother and I were on our way to Fezziwig’s midwinter festival and it seems we’re slightly lost.”  
  
He blinks at her with more than a little confusion. “Well, you… you’re on the main road. Just keep going. South, not north, or you’ll end up in the mountains. It’s, uh, that way.” He points a knobby finger the way they came.

“Right, of course. Is it very far?”

His eyebrows lift. “Ah, somewhat.”

“I see. In that case, would you mind terribly if we warmed ourselves by your fire before carrying on?”

“Oh, well, um…” He casts a wincing look back inside the cottage, and runs a hand over his snowy beard.

“Belle!” Rumpelstiltskin pipes up in a voice of pure crone, “What is the delay? Is he going to let us in or is he going to let all this gingerbread go stone cold?”

Belle’s initial cringe turns to puzzlement as she looks to find Rumpelstiltskin standing with a huge cloth-covered plate in both hands. “Oh. Yes. Of course, Grandmother. The gingerbread. Do you happen to like gingerbread, Master…?”

“Cratchit. And, uh, yes.”

“Very well then, step aside!” Rumpelstiltskin commands.

Cratchit, no doubt obeying years of training at the hands of past matrons, shuffles back to allow Belle and Rumpelstiltskin to scurry into the warmth within the cottage. It is clean enough, though clearly worn to suit the needs of one unfussy person. Cratchit waves Rumpelstiltskin toward a slightly sagging armchair by the hearth, “Grandmother, if you would care to sit?”  
  
Irritation vanishes into a smile as Rumpelstiltskin lowers himself down and sets the plate on his lap. “Why thank you, dearie. You don’t know what that winter chill was doing to my old bones.”

“I can guess,” he murmurs, rubbing at a spot where his neck and shoulder meet. “Suppose you might like some tea?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Belle sits opposite Rumpelstiltskin on the only other seat in the room- a dusty chair that was definitely built for a child. She watches Cratchit take a kettle from the hearth and duck outside to fill it with snow. He returns and sets it to hang over the fire, picking up a poker to nudge the logs into a higher flame.

“Gingerbread?” Rumpelstiltskin offers, removing the cloth to reveal a veritable army of baked men.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Cratchit replies, taking one and munching it eagerly. “Delithuth,” he mumbles through a slight spray of crumbs.

“Too kind,” Rumpelstiltskin demurs, “Everyone deserves a treat at midwinter.”

“Indeed.”

“Hardly dare to hope how many goodies there will be at the festival. Why aren’t you in attendance this year?”

“Ah, well, my old mare Nan isn’t feeling her best. I thought I’d let us both have a quiet evening. I’m not one for crowds much anyway. It was…” He pauses, swallows hard, “It was my wife and son who truly loved the holiday. She’s passed now. And the life of a woodcutter never appealed to our Tim. He’s gone off to earn his living at sea. He’s happy there. Writes when he can, though of course it’s difficult to say when or where that may be.” He ducks his head and huffs out a laugh, “Listen to me go on. Have you a son, mistress?”

The pall of sorrow drapes over Rumpelstiltskin like a shroud as his gaze falls to the gingerbread men. “I do have a son. He also loved the midwinter holiday. He is… When last I saw him we parted on bad terms. It was my fault. It is all I want in this world to make things right, but I don’t know if I can. If he would forgive me.”

His sorrow has reached deep into Belle’s heart, the ache of it driving her to say, “If you’re truly sorry, he deserves to know, even if he doesn’t choose to forgive you.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s gaze rises to her, and his soul stares out from beneath the crone’s mask. Belle barely dares to breathe. “Yes, but to find him… There will be a cost. A great cost. Perhaps too great, in the end.”

Between them, Cratchit coughs, “Well, you might ask Rumpelstiltskin for some gold if the travel expenses are a problem.”

Belle and Rumpelstiltskin blink, suddenly registering the large woodcutter crouched between them. Belle forces out the tiniest of laughs, “Yes, indeed, he- she might.”

The kettle’s whistle mercifully changes the subject to tea. Belle soon cradles her cup, staring into it when not glancing up at Rumpelstiltskin and pretending not to notice him glancing up at her. When Cratchit offers to add a nip of Dunbroch whisky “for your old bones,” he readily accepts, as does Belle if only to soften the strain of this moment.

It’s beyond obvious he had no intention of revealing what he had to anyone, let alone his castle caretaker and a random woodcutter, for all the actual facts remain cloaked in mystery. But now Belle knows his “lost son” is not exactly lost, just gone far away. Far enough that it will take magic to find him. Powerful magic. Dark magic. Queen Regina’s kind of magic.

She is not plotting to stop Rumpelstiltskin. She will not, now that she has an idea of what’s at stake. But it just seems to her that dark magic can’t be the _only_ answer to this problem. Of course, if she was asked for an alternative, all she could offer is a shrug.

Eventually her troubled thoughts are smoothed by the earlier mulled wine and the whisky and she finds herself and Rumpelstiltskin laughing quite readily at an anecdote Cratchit shares about old Nan. That brings a story to Belle’s mind about her father’s horse Phillipe, which inspires Cratchit to fetch one of Tim’s letters to share a wild tale about his son’s friend Filippo. More of Tim’s sailor stories follow, and eventually lead to Cratchit teaching Belle and Rumpelstiltskin quite an interesting song.

“That damned Erinaceous has been my downfall / For the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!” they bellow together at the end of a full nineteen verses of various animals experiencing inconveniences the hedgehog is happily free from.

Belle drops back in her chair and nearly topples the tiny thing right over, but she’s too busy laughing to notice. Rumpelstiltskin sniggers into his tea cup, which is mostly full despite there being nearly no tea in it. Where he sits on the hearthstone Cratchit slaps his knee with the last of his chortles and glances over at an elaborate clock hanging on the wall.

“Gods above, look at the time. You might miss the festival if you don’t leave now.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Belle replies with a measure of genuine disappointment. “Well, Grandmother, shall we leave Master Cratchit to enjoy the rest of his evening?”

“Yes, I believe we shall. Come along, Belle.” He rises, and the long since emptied plate vanishes from his lap just as Cratchit busies himself climbing to his feet.

“Well, I… I thank you ladies for your company,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “It was unexpected, but quite welcome. More welcome than I might have thought.”

Belle takes his hand between hers for a warm shake. “And we thank you for your great kindness in allowing two strangers to come in from the cold. I’m certain luck will be with you for all the remaining days of winter.”

“Yes, do take care, Master Cratchit,” Rumpelstiltskin says while he and Belle move to the door

“Good evening, mistress, and- when you find your son,” Rumpelstiltskin freezes, “Just… be honest. Speak from the heart. That’s most important, whatever else.”

Rumpelstiltskin nods. “I’m sure you are right. Good evening.”

With a few last smiles and waves, they step back into the icy darkness outside the cottage. Rumpelstiltskin only waits long enough to hear Cratchit’s footsteps move away from the door before he wraps magic around him and Belle and whisks them off to the Dark Castle.

Belle, her head still somewhat floaty, stumbles upon arrival, but two gentle hands on her arms keep her standing. She gives Rumpelstiltskin a grateful smile, which becomes a slight frown as she still sees the crone’s face. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she inquires.

He lets go of her arms as his gaze drops to the floor. “No. Not so bad. I suppose. More or less.”

Belle guides her thoughts away from guilt over what he inadvertently revealed tonight. Nothing’s changed, not really. The world didn’t end, if that’s what he was afraid of. They just had a pleasant time at the festival, and then in the house of a new friend. So there’s really no reason at all for the sudden melancholy she feels seeping into her heart.

“What’s the matter?”

She blinks and calls up another smile. “Nothing, I just… At home, we would have a midwinter festival, and it was lovely. But for me, the real celebration was always sitting with my parents by the fire, just enjoying each other’s company. Talking, laughing, singing. I might have thought I’d miss out on that this year. I’m so very glad that wasn’t the case.”

Just that easily, homesickness melts into warm nostalgia mixed with true happiness for the place life has taken her, and the people she is with, her grumpy, sarcastic, fascinating sorcerer most of all. It leads her to step close and plant a kiss on the crone’s withered cheek. With a sudden flash of golden light and a jerk, Rumpelstiltskin stands as himself again, but stares at Belle like she’s the one who changed form.

“Uh, are you all right?” she asks.

“Fine. Yes, quite fine. I just… I need to go. Things to do.” He stalks off into the gloomy halls, leaving Belle to wander up to her tower room with her lips slightly tingling in a strange way.

Some days later, Queen Regina glides into the castle and up to the laboratory. After several minutes, even Belle making lunch down in the kitchens can hear the woman’s screeching fury above. She stays very still until she hears the entrance doors slam open and shut. Then she sprints for Rumpelstiltskin’s tower with her heart in her throat.

The laboratory is a wreck, but the man stands with a solemn air by the window, watching Regina’s black carriage barrel down the road. Belle still approaches slowly, carefully.

His gaze moves to her, and he smiles in a way she’s never seen him smile. It almost seems peaceful. “I believe I once promised to tell you my story. Are you still interested in hearing it?”

Belle’s heart has returned to her chest just in time to leap with joy, and maybe something else. “It’s all I want.”


End file.
